The Trip
by Surburia
Summary: Frasier distraught over the loss of Diane finds himself unable to cope with his feelings. Sam offers support and a suggestion that will take them cross country. What happens along the journey will redefine a friendship and perhaps heal old wounds.
1. Chapter 1

Frasier pushed his foot down on the accelerator of his BMW. The engine came to life; a low rumble filling the empty street, and reverberating back into the upholstery. It shook his very foundation and he closed his eyes for a moment, imaging the median only inches away from the tires, the headlights illuminating the yellow slashes, the road only existing within their glare, otherwise a dark expanse of nothingness, impossible to discern and delineate. The blaring horn caused him to pull the car back into his own lane and a small red sedan shot past him in the opposite direction.

"Damn it," He swore. He didn't want to hear Vivaldi tonight and he ejected the tape from the player. The station was set to seventies throw back Sunday, and "Boogie Nights" was playing. He rolled his eyes and his left hand slipped from the wheel. It was hard to hold his head up and he thought it would be so easy to just to close his eyes again, but her image swam into focus every time he tried and he groaned and forced his focus back on the road. Diane. Diane at the bar. Diane with Sam. He wanted to spin the wheel to the right. He wanted to feel the momentum and the force as he changed the direction of his BMW so swiftly that the tires would lose traction. He wanted to go head first into that tree row, and every time he closed his eyes he hoped it would happen. He didn't have the strength or the resolve to actually perform the action. His head hurt and he knew it was a miracle he was still awake. How many glasses of wine had he downed with those three Benzodiazepines?

The headlights made everything slow and soft, even though the speedometer read eighty. He pushed his toe a little harder against the pedal, the engine purring again and the needle hitching to 85. He liked the feeling, the power he possessed over this machine, two tons of metal and he wanted to push its limit, but the idea, even the ability to apply that much more pressure to the pedal was tiring.

He leant his head back and his foot eased from the pedal. He closed his eyes and kept one hand on the wheel. He didn't want to think of Diane. He wanted nothing but to forget her, but she swam from the blackness and he could smell her Chanel number five that he bought her for Christmas and had given to her at the ski lodge. He remembered the French they spoke together on Sundays, how atrocious her pronunciation was, but how it made him feel something, made him want her, for all her imperfections, for her naiveté and self-confidence. How he couldn't bring himself to correct her, because he didn't want to hurt her in anyway. He was floating, doing cartwheels in his head over and over, like in Seattle twenty years ago, Niles hugging his arm on the tilt-to-whirl. His little brother hiding his face against Frasier's arm. He thinks he should call Niles. It's been too long since he'd spoken to his little brother. He opened his eyes as his BMW hit the gravel on the side of the road and somehow his foot found the brake. The tires screeched against the road and he swerved back across the median and then into his own lane. The car came to a stop half on and off of the shoulder.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew something was wrong, but he couldn't feel anything and his medical school training issued in thick dense globs of thought, word for word, dredged from some recess of late night studying things of importance, and finally he closed his eyes. Those lines not in his own voice, but in Diane's issued through his mind and he didn't know if he was asleep, but her voice kept him company, reiterating over and over again the symptoms of suicidal ideation: thoughts serving the agent of one's own death- manifested from transient thoughts with respect to the worthlessness of life and death- to permanent, concrete plans for killing oneself and obsessive preoccupation with self-destruction. May be an aspect of depressed mood- a coping strategy- hopelessness- habitual or chronic as well as of an acute nature- and her voice dropped away and found a new topic- depression, depersonalization self-destruction. Looping, looping, so that none of it made sense and he couldn't process anything, but the cadence of her voice; the rise and fall as the words fell away and it all boiled down to Diane.


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter, and especially to samanddianefan10 for reviewing and faving. It's greatly appreciated. I suppose I should have prefaced the first chapter with some information about this story. I've been working on this since May and I had initially planned to wait until I had finished it before posting, but I'm tired of sitting on it and decided to share at least some of the beginning, in order to receive some feedback, and push to keep writing. I'll probably post a fully edited version of this story once it's finished.

I hope you don't find Frasier too out of character in these first chapters. I've tried to base my characterization off of how he was portrayed in Cheers after his breakup with Diane. I think Frasier can be a very impulsive person when ruled by his emotions. You can see this in various episodes of both Cheers and Frasier. This story is set about a month after that breakup, and directly after the scene in the beginning of the fourth season of Cheers when Frasier confronted Sam with the unloaded gun. I think this was a very dark time in his life and we as an audience were never told the events that transpired between the altar scene and when he shows up clearly broken in the beginning of the fourth season. What did he do to lose his job, tenure etc, in that span of time? So I hope you don't find these first chapters two outlandish and stick with me. I'll be moving this story to the crossover section soon. Thanks samanddianefan10 for the suggsetions.)

Chapter 2

Light broke through the darkness, and a sharp pain on either side of his temples caused Frasier to turn his head to try and escape the source. The light disappeared and he groggily opened his eyes trying to place himself. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and he turned his neck, finding that the motion caused a pain to shoot through his shoulder and down his arm. His head throbbed and sluggish images assaulted his mind: pushing locks of Diane's hair away from her face, lying on the bed that one lazy afternoon, reading Baudelaire aloud, the sunlight falling across the comforter.

The radio in his BMW was playing Gloria Nightingale. He couldn't remember getting in his car. He wondered if he had fallen asleep in the parking lot again, a more and more frequent occurrence in the past month. But god, his head hurt. He raised a mostly unresponsive hand to his temple. With his other he struggled with the radio knob and with a turn of his sluggish fingers quieted the noise. The headlights illuminated the wooded area in front of him. Vaguely he registered flashing lights somewhere behind him, and a knock on the driver's window made him jump.

"Sir, roll down your window," a muffled voice issued from somewhere outside. He found the button on the dash and the window descended, cool summer breeze accosted his neck. He lifted his head higher, and was blinded by the light streaming from the flashlight in the cop's hand. "Sir have you been drinking tonight?"

The words didn't make sense. Frasier wanted to put his head back down and he must had because the next moment, the cop was tapping his shoulder.

"Sir I need you to exit the vehicle."

He couldn't formulate an argument. The words were jumbled in his head, slow and incoherent. He put his hands to his temple again.

"Sir, _can_ you exit the vehicle?"

He detected a tone of criticism in the man's voice and there was a sudden spark. How dare he insinuate he was incapable of exiting his own car? Of course he could get out of the car. What nitwit couldn't pull a simple handle? But it took so much effort to move his hand there. It was so tedious to get each of those fingers to wrap around that handle, forget flexing them. He'd forgotten that the door was locked as well and with a sigh the cop reached in and unlocked it and pulled it open. Frasier couldn't remember getting into the back of the police car or how he ended up with his head leaning against the grate, but when he did realize he pulled himself backwards, leaning violently to the left, incapable of stopping the motion and smacking his head against the glass of the door. The policeman laughed.

"It's not funny," he said. His voice sounded strange.

"Yeah not funny, Dr. Crane, not funny at all," the man in the front said. "How do jokers like you get licensed, huh? Fucking head case, if I ever saw one."

Something about the tone made Frasier think of his father. The strangeness of the man knowing his name only vaguely registered. Lights streamed in through the window, too bright, overexposed, blinding. Flashes of color, reds, greens, diffuse at first in the country grew brighter and numerous as they entered downtown Boston.

"My father's a part of your fine profession," Frasier slurred. "Has the same colorful expressions."

"Is that so, well he must be real put out over you."

Frasier didn't respond.

"Where's he stationed?" The front seat asked after a moment. His voice sounded different, softer.

Frasier closed his eyes. He seemed to be spinning. "Seattle," he managed to say.

"Well you're sure as hell a long way from home. I have a son, you know? We don't talk anymore neither."

There was something horribly ironic about having to listen to this man's problem in his situation and he began to laugh. The sound hitched in his throat and his eyes burned and he brought one of his sluggish hands up to wipe the tears he couldn't stop.

"Hey that's not funny, Doc, you know?" But the voice didn't sound angry, it sounded detached and numb.

"You sound depressed," Frasier said.

The cop laughed.

The cop led him into the police station. "You need to dry out."

The floor shifted beneath Frasier's feet, but he managed to keep upright. He used the wall as a support as they walked down the hallway. He thought maybe he asked the cop to take him home, and he thought of Seattle, but the answer he got back was obscured, and he heard his Dad's voice, a conversation he'd had a few months earlier.

"We've got nothing in common Frasier. Why bother even coming out to see us? It's been more than a year. You've made it clear you're life in Boston is more important than family. You're mother's sick. I didn't want to tell you like this, but you won't even give her the time of day."

The 'sorry' formed in the back of his throat. Maybe he said it. Maybe he said it over and over again. He didn't know. Didn't all drunks apologize profusely? The rest of the evening came in strips of lucidity; a tattooed man in the corner of the holding cell pounding his fist against the wall, the door opening and someone new added to their menagerie. Frasier took off his trench coat and laid it down on one of the open benches, its former occupant relocating to the floor with a drunken roll. Something seemed to scratch in his brain as he wadded up his Armani trench coat, but he was too tired, the walls were moving, and he just wanted nothingness for a little bit. Anything not to think of Diane. The drugs pulled him down, anything not to think of how she had ruined him, and how easy that feat had been.


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: Hi! I think a few of you out there are reading this and I just want to say I really appreciate that. I know this story's started out darker than what is usually seen in this fandom and I understand if that's off putting. I still appreciate any comments; good or bad and I always love getting constructive criticism. What do you think character-wise or plot-wise? Anyways thanks for reading and I would love to hear from you.) **

He woke up sweating, his stomach in a knot. His head seemed to weigh fifty pounds and he closed his eyes. The lights were too bright. He looked at the state of his trench coat and sighed. The horror of his predicament weighed on him and he swung his feet down from the bench he had been reclining on. On the other side of the metal bars of the prison cell stood a tall man.

"Hey Frasier."

Frasier jolted and black lines zigzagged across his vision as he refocused on the man. He met the sheepish stare of Sam Malone.

"What fresh hell is this," he mumbled to himself. He grabbed his coat when he stood, but he didn't dare to put it on. He could feel sweat running down under the collar of his sweater.

"What are you doing here Sam?" Frasier said and groaned when his stomach flip-flopped.

"Now is that anyway to greet your rescuer?" Sam said, but seeing the look Frasier gave him quickly changed his tactic. "Look, I heard you got into some trouble, but you're free now, right Joe, he's free?" Sam turned to the guard who had followed him into the room.

"Yeah Mr. Malone." The guard grinned down at a pair of baseball tickets in a horrible display of subtlety. Frasier was horrified to discover that Sam had paid his bail in the form of bribery.

"My son's been begging me to take him to a Sox's game. Now which riffraff did you want?" The guard said and pulled out his keys."

"Uh, that one," Sam said and pointed towards Frasier. "I heard you had some car trouble" Sam said as the guard fumbled with the key in the lock.

"Look here, it was a momentary lapse in my constitution. No one was harmed," Frasier said. But he didn't know that for sure. His stomach dropped with the realization.

"Driving with a blood alcohol level of .29 isn't something to be taken lightly," the guard said and frowned down at his keys.

".29," Sam said. "Jeez, Frasier."

Frasier didn't want to interpret the pity in Sam's voice or the sense of responsibility that Frasier assumed had brought him to the police station. It didn't seem like something Sam Malone would do and this new interpretation of Sam made Frasier's already throbbing forehead increase double fold. The guard opened the door and Frasier stepped out.

"Your license has been suspended for 180 days because you refused to consent to required testing. Your hearing is in three days," the guard said.

"This is an outrage," Frasier said, almost shouted. His head wouldn't stop pounding.

"Come on Frasier," Sam stepped closer. The guard took on a defensive stance. "Come on," Sam said again and stepped closer. "We'll get this sorted out. Let me take you home."

It was almost enough. He felt something break a little bit more inside of him and suddenly he was so tired all he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes, and the exhaustion almost drew that one small word from him that might offer him a form of a redemption that might offer him redemption.

Instead Sam's audacity and the pounding in his head, and the rage that still burned, as well as the fracture in his self-control caused him to curl his fingers into his fist and swing towards Sam. His knuckles connected with Sam's right cheekbone. The policeman leapt from behind the counter and wrapped his arms tightly around Frasier's chest and pulled him to the ground. The air in his lungs was forced out and he gasped for breath, curling in on himself. His hand throbbed.

"Stop it. Get off of him. Get off of him," he heard Sam say. Frasier tried to draw breath in, but his lungs refused, spots swam before his eyes, the pain in his head pounded with each heartbeat. "Come on Fras," Sam said and another set of arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him back to his feet.

"Look he's had the worst night of his life, give him a break," Sam said.

The cop's hands were shaking, but he nodded.

The air was coming a little easier.

"Easy now," Sam said.

All the fight died away. He leaned heavily against Sam.

"Come on give me your arm."

Frasier complied and Sam tightened his grip against Frasier's shoulder.

Sam led Frasier to his corvette.

"Just drop me at my apartment," Frasier said.

"Frasier is there someone I can call." Sam looked at him from the corner of his eye.

Frasier studied the ceiling of Sam's car, even that motion caused a pain to form behind his eyes.

"Look Frasier, I don't think you should be alone. I can take you somewhere."

Frasier thought of Seattle and began to laugh. What would Sam say to that road trip? Sam looked at him. "It's nothing Sam. I'm fine."

Now Sam laughed. "Look, I don't think you should be alone. How about you crash at my place for a couple of days, huh?"

"I don't think that's something either of us could manage," Frasier said darkly.

"Ah come on now Frasier, you helped me out when I was going through a hard time. A couple of bachelors taking it easy for a couple days." Sam winced seeming to realize what he had just said. "Damn it Frasier, I'm sorry."

"It's fine Sam," Frasier said and kept his gaze locked on the passing buildings outside of the passenger window.

"So what do you say, huh? An hour? Got some left over pizza I can warm up. Cure for a hangover." Sam messed with the dial on the radio.

Frasier thought of the apartment he had left; Diane's things still hanging in his closest, her smell on his bed sheets, her hairbrush in his bathroom, her books on his shelf, her poetry on his bedside table.

"Alright Sam," he said in a low voice barely audible over the radio.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam's apartment wasn't what Frasier expected, even from the cursory once over he gave it, it was much cleaner he thought, almost orderly. He closed his eyes and swayed a bit.

"Hey Frasier, why don't you sit down, huh?"

"Sam, if I can impose, all I really desire right now is a shower." A scalding shower, he thought reconsidering the state of the trench coat he had folded neatly while still in Sam's corvette. His undershirt stuck to his skin.

"Go ahead. I'll see if I can't scrounge us up something to eat. That Pizza okay with you? I can try my hand at scrambled eggs if you're in more of breakfast mood." Sam said and approached the kitchen that connected to the dining room. "I think I have some sweats that would probably fit you. We're about the same height," Sam said and pointed out the bathroom to Frasier, "go through the bedroom."

Frasier held back the cringe he felt at the mention of having to wear Sam's sweats or the idea of staying in this apartment for more than an hour, but then he saw the bruise on Sam's cheek and he felt that strange concoction of the anger her normally felt towards Sam mingled with guilt, and he said, "Thanks, Sam. I would really appreciate that."

"No problem. Now what do you say to those eggs?

Frasier made a noise in the back of the throat that didn't come out how he intended, but Sam shook his head seeming to take it for a laugh and said, "I try my hand at cooking. I know who would have thought. Don't go spreading it around though." The bedroom and the bathroom connected to it weren't as fastidiously clean as the rest of the apartment, and Frasier wondered why. The den of iniquity he thought as he walked through Sam's room. The blinds were drawn and he couldn't make out many details. The bed was situated in the middle of the room and he could make out the shapes of end tables on either side. Was the clean entrance way the doing of someone else? One of Sam's many conquests? The bathroom seemed to speak more of the man, more of who Sam Malone really was. Frasier turned the handle on the bathtub as far as it would go to the right, and the water poured out of the spigot cold underneath his fingers. His head was still pounding, albeit not as badly as before, but still impossible to ignore. The pain made its presence known right at the front of his temple. He stepped away from the bathtub and stood in front of the mirror and the sink. He opened the mirror looking for aspirin. Everything was disorganized, Over the counter medicines haphazardly placed on each of the three shelves, old curled up toothpaste containers, a few combs, a collection of cologne bottles in various stages of emptiness. Frasier fumbled for the aspirin bottle and managed to knock most of the others into the sink. "Damnit," he hissed, but he got the aspirin bottle open and knocked out three pills into his hand. The shower was beginning to steam. He picked up the bottles from the sink, fighting the urge to organize them and put them in random order back into the mirror, even adding the flourish of placing the aspirin bottle on its side. He stepped into the shower and took the pills washing them down with the slightly metallic tasting water from the shower head. As the water pounded over his aching head, he tried to think back on the night's events. It remained shrouded in obscurity. He could remember the rage he felt when he came back from Cheers after threatening Sam with the fake gun. How with shaking hands he had popped the lid from the bottle of tranquilizers Niles had written the script for last year over Christmas. How one hadn't seemed enough. He wanted to be in a stupor and fast. He washed down two more and then still feeling like his limbs were on fire, he grabbed the bottle of sherry Diane and he had picked out together and poured a glass, throwing it back, and another, and another. Until he felt that calm steal over him and the world soften and a darkness replace his rage. He didn't want Diane. He didn't want anything anymore. It was that impulse, that dying of his initial anger, so bright and external to this dimly burning internal self-hatred, that drove him to his BMW, a car he loved, cherished, polished and washed four times a month, and feel nothing but the desire to destroy it. Destroying it would be punishment and destroying it and maybe himself would demonstrate what he had been unable to in Sam's office, it would show Diane the extent of her betrayal. That she had done more damage that she could imagine to Doctor Frasier Crane.

He ran a hand through his hair and hissed when his fingers brushed against a bump he couldn't remember getting.

"Great. What I was thinking?" he said out loud to the shower wall. He sighed and tried to relax. He was so tired. He picked through Sam's shampoo collection, finding a wide range of products. Testaments to his many conquests. Didn't they question why Sam had so many feminine products in his shower? Or just accept it as a product of the five star hotel that was Sam Malone's apartment. Maybe he cooked them breakfast too. Frasier couldn't stop the smirk at this implication in relation to himself. The shampoo he squirted into his hand was the one he assumed that Sam used. The bottle said Active Sport and the scent of it was described as, he had to laugh, "sport". Scoffing at the description Frasier sniffed at the bottle. There was a vaguely acrylic acidic soapy smell and perhaps a hint of peppermint. And it was he realized a smell he associated with Sam. Frasier shrugged and put the bottle down lathering his hair in whatever "sport" was supposed to be.

When he was finished with his shower he put on the sweats Sam had given him. Grey sweatpants and a Boston Red Sox sweatshirt. He gave his reflection a defeated sardonic smile and used one of the discarded combs in Sam's mirror to fix his hair. The dark circles under his eyes were a little less pronounced, and the ache in his head had greatly diminished.

He considered his rumpled sweater and pants, before folding them neatly and heading back through the bedroom and into the living area. He considered his actions in a way divorced from his emotions, almost divorced from his own body, disassociation, he would have told one of his patients. It was a strange sensation almost as if looking at the room from a higher plane, like the feet he was placing one in front of the other weren't his own. It was the toll he had put on his body last night. He reined in the fear creeping in the peripheral and told himself the feeling would pass. The smell of scrambled eggs permeated the kitchen and his stomach flip-flopped at the notion of eating.

"Sam you don't need to go to all of this trouble."

"Hey you can't just shower and run, you'll ruin my reputation."

"Ha ha," Frasier said. He stood in the middle of the kitchen feeling awkward and considered an excuse that would allow him an inarguable exit, but then with a sudden dropping feeling in his chest he realized that he didn't have his car. He didn't have his driver's license. Not to mention he'd lost his medical license and job. He sat down heavily in one of Sam's kitchen chairs and stared straight ahead, trying to stay calm. He recognized the pre symptoms of a panic attack, he hadn't thought of the disassociation as an indicator, but it was a complaint he heard often in his most anxious patients, the tremor in his fingers and he focused on his breathing, trying frantically to recall the things he told patients in the same position. How inane that advice was, this was all encompassing, his heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't want Sam to see him like this, but the panic was so much that he wanted to reach out, he wanted to say something. Classic symptoms he thought, racing thoughts, increased blood pressure and pulse, resulting in an autonomic response of increased respiration, leading to an alkaline increase in blood content, resulting in symptoms, numbness in extremities, affected speech, a feeling of impending doom. Sam kept his back to the table, singing the words to "Down Under." "I come from a land down under, where beer does flow and men chunder, Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover."

Frasier stood up suddenly and began pacing back and forth, it helped a bit, gave a momentum and outlet to the panickly energy.

"Want coffee?" Sam asked.

"No coffee," Frasier managed to choke out hoping he sounded relatively normal, but Sam turned around.

"Woah, Frasier, you okay?"

The question was so simple, maybe not even sincere, but it was enough and Frasier felt like something broke inside of him. "Sam I think I'm in trouble," he said. His fingers were shaking so badly and he could barely catch his breath. "It's just a panic attack," he said, feeling a twinge of regret at the look of concern that twisted Sam's features. "It will pass. It's just my bodies reaction to the past days stress."

"I think I have a paper bag under the sink," Sam said and dropped to his knees.

Frasier knelt over the kitchen table and planted his palms against the glass top.

"Here," Sam held the bag in his hand, "our first base man used to get 'em before games, carried one of these with him wherever he went."

Frasier nodded, trying to offer Sam a smile, but he didn't know if the expression made it to his face, so instead he took the bag from Sam's hand and began to breathe deeply. Sam pulled out the chair for him and he sat down, putting his head between his knees. He felt Sam's hand on his shoulder and the contact was magnified by the acute reaction of his nerves. The bag crinckled with each fast inhale and exhale, but the tingling in his fingers lessened. Sam's hand remained on his shoulder. He could already feel embarrassment creeping in around the diminishing panic.

"Would water help?" Sam asked and moved to the tap without an answer. He placed the glass on the table top and Frasier nodded a thank you. "I don't know what else to get you. I'd offer you a drink, but I don't- well you know well enough that I don't drink."

"This is enough, Sam," Frasier said and put the bag down on the table. He still felt panicked, but he had the symptoms under control. He drank the water slowly, stalling. He didn't want to answer the questions Sam was sure to ask. He didn't want to think about what a spectacle of himself he had just made in the apartment of Diane's former lover and the man who played a role in ending their engagement, but he couldn't think of a dignified way to exit. He didn't think after that display, he would be able to beg for a ride, he couldn't handle the thought of it. This position of being scrutinized, of not having power over himself of the situation, was something he had rarely dealt with. He was so used to be tasked with solving other people's problems. That his own created an inscrutable quandary. He didn't know where to start. Physician, heal thyself, he thought.

"So you take salt on your eggs?" Sam asked and Frasier could have sighed in relief to not be subjected to the questions he had been expecting.

"Yes salt's fine," he said.

"If you need to lie down, couch is all yours."

"Thanks, Sam," Frasier said. "Thanks for everything."

"No. No need for that. I'm just helping out a friend."

He didn't realize that Sam considered him a friend. They never interacted outside of Cheers any contact they had was instigated by Diane. Maybe everyone who sat down at Sam's bar instantaneously gained his friendship. The women certainty did.

"Thanks Sam," he said again, sure that the words sounded hollow and insincere, but Sam made no indication of noticing.

"Here you go, Sam ala eggs," Sam said and pushed a plate Frasier's way.

"I think you mean eggs ala Sam," Frasier said.

"Yeah well you hit me pretty hard," Sam said and laughed.

"I'm sorry about that. I don't know what came over me. Another symptom of my late night debauchery I suppose. I've never done anything like that before," Frasier took the fork that Sam offered him. "It looks pretty bad Sam." The lower lid of his left eye was partially swollen shut directly above his cheek which was a bright purple color. "You should put ice on it."

"Don't worry about it, Frasier. This is far from the worst I've seen. Though, damn, if that wasn't a solid landing. Took me completely out of leftfield. You hit pretty good, for an egghead, you know that," Sam said and laughed. "No one's going to believe this shiner came from you."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't spread that information around. I've already lost enough dignity."

Sam found a pack of frozen peas and put it over his eye. "Dignity, ha, yeah," Sam said and pointed to his face.

Frasier picked up the fork and began cutting the eggs. He took a bite, and was surprised to find a veritable array of flavors. "Wow Sam I never expected you were," he wanted to say capable, but settled on, "such an astute cook. The range of flavors, disparate, but somehow coming together to create something altogether new and unexpected."

"What are you talking about? It's just eggs, salt pepper, hot sauce, whatever was crusting in the bottom of the pan before I cracked 'em in. Nothing to it."

"I real Wolfgang Puck," Frasier quipped, but took another bite of the eggs.

"Coffee?" Sam asked. "You look like you need it."

Considering the tremors he still felt in his fingers, Frasier decided that adding a stimulant to his already frayed nerves wasn't a good idea. "I think I'll pass Sam."

Sam nodded and poured himself a cup. "I can't start out the day without it and whoo boy what an early day it's turned out to be."

"Hey Sam, how did you know-" he waved his hand in the air hoping Sam would catch on.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Uh How did you know where to find me?"

"Oh some old cop called me, said you had Cheers' business card with the office number scribbled on the back. He sounded concerned, gruff, but concerned."

"I see," said Frasier, not remembering giving the police officer his wallet. He tried to remember the cop who had arrested him, he could remember some of the ride, but when he thought of the cop there was only a feeling of pain and disappointment, guilt.

He rubbed a hand through his hair and winced when he hit the bump on the back of his head.

"Headache," Sam asked.

"Nah. I guess I hit my head at some point last night."

"I think I have some frozen carrots," Sam said looking far too amused and opened the freezer, tossing the bag to Frasier before he had the chance to protest.

Frasier looked at the package then shrugged before placing the carrots against the back of his head.

"Man, we're quite the pair, huh?" Sam said.

"Indeed." Frasier used his other hand to finish his eggs.

"Why don't you lie down for a little bit? I doubt you got much sleep in that cell last night."

Frasier winced at the notion. Last night still seemed so surreal. He had half convinced himself that it hadn't happened at all. Sam picked up Frasier's empty plate and motioned for him to go to the couch. "Just throw the magazines on the floor."

Frasier put them on the table, before sitting down, still holding the frozen carrots to his head. He didn't realize quite how much his whole body ached until he lay back against the pillow. The world still teetered a little bit behind his closed eyelids. "I think I'm still drunk, Sam," he said.

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat that might have been agreement. Frasier listened to his movements in the kitchen, the faucet being turned on, the rush of water, the opening of the refrigerator door until the sounds started to fade away, and the spinning started to settle down, he seemed to sink into the pillows and the softness of the couch and lose the sensation of being awake.


End file.
